Quotes by Paul Celan - Page 1

you're rowing by wordlight
Paul Celan / Poet
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They've healed me to pieces.
Paul Celan / Poet
Healed
Pieces
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Poetry is a sort of homecoming.
Paul Celan / Poet
Inspirational
Homecoming
Poetry Is
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Death is a master from Germany.
Paul Celan / Poet
Germany
Masters
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who is invisible enough to see you
Paul Celan / Poet
Enough
Invisible
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no one bears witness for the witness
Paul Celan / Poet
Bears
Witness
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He speaks truly who speaks the shade.
Paul Celan / Poet
Shade
Speak
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Spring: trees flying up to their birds
Paul Celan / Poet
Bird
Spring
Tree
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Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!
Paul Celan / Poet
Earth
Humans
Tall
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There was earth inside them, and they dug.
Paul Celan / Poet
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I went with my very being toward language.
Paul Celan / Poet
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Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.
Paul Celan / Poet
Bitterness
Black
Holocaust
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in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air
Paul Celan / Poet
Air
Remains
Roots
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The two heart-grey puddles: two mouthsfull of silence.
Paul Celan / Poet
Heart
Silence
Two
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Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.
Paul Celan / Poet
Won
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Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.
Paul Celan / Poet
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The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.
Paul Celan / Poet
Dark
Heart
Stones
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The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher's Stone.
Paul Celan / Poet
Dark
Philosopher
Hid
Stone
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Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
Paul Celan / Poet
Arrows
Secret
Target
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A nothing we were, are, shall remain, flowering: the nothing--, the no one's rose.
Paul Celan / Poet
Flowering
Holocaust
Rose
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Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
Paul Celan / Poet
Doe
Reality
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The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.
Paul Celan / Poet
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How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.
Paul Celan / Poet
Knots
Lasts
Splinters
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Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
Paul Celan / Poet
Inspirational
Hands
Truthful
Writing
Basic
Difference
Poem
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Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.
Paul Celan / Poet
Manifold
Names
World
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rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.
Paul Celan / Poet
Once Upon A Time
Scent
Way
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We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'
Paul Celan / Poet
Happenings
Mad
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There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.
Paul Celan / Poet
Giving Up
World
Writing
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Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
Paul Celan / Poet
Language
Loss
Spite
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German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.
Paul Celan / Poet
Beauty
Poetry
Truth
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Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.
Paul Celan / Poet
Hours
Strong
World
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The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?
Paul Celan / Poet
Poetry
Loneliness
Lonely
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With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans. They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages.
Paul Celan / Poet
Lasts
Snow
Wine
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With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.
Paul Celan / Poet
Blood
Eye
Keys
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A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.
Paul Celan / Poet
Hopeful
Land
Reality
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A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.
Paul Celan / Poet
Heart
Reality
Strong
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Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not lost, yes, in spite of everything. But it had to pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech. It passed through and gave back no words for that which happened; yet it passed through this happening. Passed through and could come to light again, “enriched” by all this.
Paul Celan / Poet
Darkness
Light
Loss
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Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusa’s head, the abyss and the automaton, all seem to lie in the same direction—is it perhaps this turn, this Atemwende, which can sort out the strange from the strange? It is perhaps here, in this one brief moment, that Medusa’s head shrivels and the automaton runs down? Perhaps, along with the I, estranged and freed here, in this manner, some other thing is also set free?
Paul Celan / Poet
Art
Running
Lying
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Count up the almonds, Count what was bitter and kept you waking, Count me in too: I sought your eye when you glanced up and no one would see you, I spun that secret thread Where the dew you mused on Slid down to pitchers Tended by a word that reached no one’s heart. There you first fully entered the name that is yours, you stepped to yourself on steady feet, the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence, things overheard thrust through to you, what’s dead put it’s arm around you too, and the three of you walked through the evening. Render me bitter. Number me among the almonds
Paul Celan / Poet
Eye
Heart
Names
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Paul Celan Quotes - Page 1

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